The small flames from the candle cast an ugly shadow on the wall, outlining the silhouette of the FM radio. At this altitude, the only station I can tune into is some local operation that plays nothing but Motown. Not my thing, but better than the government approved muzak you get down in the grasslands. I don't know what the stations play in the cities any more. I don't know if people even live there now. I got out before the riots started.

I pull the blood-stained blanket over my shoulders. Living alone for months, you get used to anything. The windows in the cabin are boarded up, but I don't need to see outside to know that the tall pine trees are already dusty with the first snow of winter, the frosty November wind whistling through the holes in the cabin walls. Rats are one of the bigger problems now, as they try to burrow their way inside, seeking shelter and food. If the cold doesn't get you, and if nobody else finds you, then it's the vermin that'll finish you off. I don't dare try and eat the ones I catch, I just let them out when daylight comes, far away from the cabin. They still come back.

There's a roar of a vehicle somewhere out there, and I hear a scream above the radio. How close do they need to be for me to hear them over the radio? In a panic I break open the shotgun in my hands and check the chamber once more. Two circles of red and gold stare back at me. I take her apart and clean her every day. I take no chances out here on my own.

No, there's not enough time to check. I ease myself out of my chair to turn the volume down on the radio. I hope I'll hear their footsteps first if they really are that close. I run my hand through my beard, licking my chapped lips, before sitting myself back down. I try and control my legs from jittering, the sound of my boots reverberating through the floorboards. Out here, every sound is deadly.

Static interrupts the tinny music. My back snaps up, the shotgun rocking in my lap, my hands massaging the armrests in anticipation. The white noise is the only sound I hear in my own small universe.

“Jeffrey Adams,” declares a man's voice over the white noise. My body tenses at the sudden presence of his words. “Jeffrey Adams,” he repeats again, as relief sweeps the other feelings away from my mind. “Jeffrey Adams,” He says one more time, before the static gives way to the music once more.

The name is a death sentence, but not for me. At least, not tonight.

I stand up and cock the shotgun in my hands. The screams are getting louder. I push the door open into the unforgiving darkness and step outside.